


Full As Much Heart

by despairoftranslators



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despairoftranslators/pseuds/despairoftranslators
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Game of Thrones / Jane Eyre Crossover</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The air was sharp with the smell of snow, and bare branches cut shadows across a darkening sky. Brienne's errand was humble but welcome: a walk to town, a letter to post, a much-longed-for hour of solitude. Not freedom -- she never longed for freedom. Just service without scrutiny. And on rare occasions, when she released Myrcella from her lessons to allow the girl the pleasure of a bright blue winter afternoon, Brienne would climb to the battlements of Casterly Hall and stare out at the hills, and the horizon beyond the hills, and dream of joy.

When the lighted windows of the house had disappeared from view, Brienne unhooked her hateful skirt and traded it for a pair of trousers that had once been Renly’s, a sorry memento of her beloved school friend but the only one she had. The pant legs fell just to her shins -- even as a girl, she had stood a good three inches taller than Renly -- and the wind chilled her ankles through her woolen stockings. But pulling on the trousers felt like stepping into her own body again, and as she walked, her arms and legs quickly re-discovered their proper rhythm. The rough weave of the fabric held memories, as well, of unsanctioned midnight rides on the headmaster’s horse, Renly alongside her, the wind whipping her pale hair into her eyes, and salty tears damp on her cheeks where no one could see. Darker memories followed hard on the heels of those: Renly’s desperate cough, that long last night curled tight around his body in the fragrant straw of the stable, the dawn that released him from his illness and marked her first day truly alone in the world.

As though conjured by her wandering thoughts, the sound of hoofbeats echoed through the trees. She stepped off the path and drew close to a large hawthorn, curling her fingers into the grooves in its bark. The last glimmer of dusk had nearly faded from the sky, and the rising half-moon gave the icy road an unearthly glow. Brienne was not a creature of fear; her physical size and a practical turn of mind kept most terrors at bay. But in that moment, a cold finger of anxiety crept up the back of her neck. Her mind filled with stories she had heard as a child, stories she knew to be true but had never before feared: stories of ghostly horses without riders, of hellhounds and shadowcats, of skinchangers who inhabited the bodies of beasts, granting them unnatural intelligence.

The animal that appeared on the path seemed the embodiment of her dark fantasies. Shaggy and golden-haired, nearly the size of a lion, the dog moved with a grace that belied its size. Close behind it came a horse, its all-too-human rider putting her worst fears to rest. Still, she did not wish to be seen on the road in her bodice and ill-fitting trousers, so she froze in place, one barely breathing shadow among a forest of shadows.

The man would surely have ridden right past her, his speed and the thick black greatcoat he wore impeding his vision. But the dog located her at once, either by smell or by sight, and his eyes gleamed green in the moonlight as he turned his head toward her. He changed direction with a growl, cutting across the path of the horse and heading straight for Brienne.

Distracted by the dog’s sudden movement, the man jerked in the saddle just as his horse’s front foot landed on a patch of ice. The horse reared, and the rider pulled hard on the reins with a man’s strength. He would have had done better with a woman’s finesse. Brienne saw his error at once but was powerless to advise him or prevent the slow-motion collapse of horse and rider that resulted. The horse hit the ground with a sickening thud. It found its footing again almost immediately, but its rider was not so fortunate. Brienne heard a deep groan. The dog halted his advance toward her, swinging his head back toward his master. He bounded over to the man’s side, with Brienne fast behind him. She guided the horse away from the man’s fallen body, relieved to hear a long string of curses as he struggled to sit up.

She crouched down beside him. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked. “Are you badly injured? Can I fetch help?”

The man looked up at her in surprise. “God, you’re a woman,” he said. “I would never have guessed.” He winced as he readjusted his leg, squinting at her through the pain. “Speak again,” he said. “I’m looking right at you, and I still can’t quite believe it.”

The words were a slap, but one she had received many times before. Her ugliness, and people’s response to it, had lost the power to surprise her. The real blow came when she saw the man’s face. He was easily the handsomest man she had ever seen, a perfect match for the golden lion that was his dog. His hair hung in his face and brushed the shoulders of his coat; the faintest hint of a beard shadowed the sharp line of his jaw. Brienne admired beauty but preferred to keep it at a distance. It was an alien quality, the province of alien beings; it hinted at worlds she had never seen and doors she could never open.

And yet.

The green eyes in this beautiful face found hers and did not look away. There was a light in them that she recognized, a spark of something that could almost have been kinship.

“I am indeed a woman, sir,” she said, lifting her chin stubbornly, unwilling to break his stare.

“Where are you from? What are you doing on the road at night?” he asked. “Just wandering the lanes, spooking horses and unseating travelers?”

His rudeness made her bold; had he treated her kindly or looked on her with pity, she might have shrunk away. “I am on my way to the village to post a letter,” she said. “You unseated yourself without my assistance.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips. “Is that so?” he asked. “Well, I may _need_ your assistance if I hope to _re_ -seat myself.” He made an attempt to push himself to his feet.

She instinctively reached for him, then pulled her hand away. To touch a man without acquaintance or permission was outside the bounds of her experience. “Your leg,” she asked. “Is it badly injured?”

“Badly enough that I fear I must make use of you,” he said, holding out a hand. “Can you help me to my horse?” She clasped hands with him and easily pulled him to his feet. Realizing he could not rest his weight on his injured leg, she shifted an arm around his back to support him. He leaned into her, smelling of wood smoke and dried leaves. The scent of speed and sweat and wind lingered in his hair, and her eyes fluttered shut briefly as she breathed it in. His coat was warm under his arm and across his chest, where her other hand rested.

As they made their way toward his horse, which stamped restlessly on the far side of the road, he spoke again. “Where did you say you were from?” he asked.

“The big house on the hill.”

“You don’t mean Casterly Hall?” he asked in disbelief. “Surely you aren’t a servant there?”

“Yes, I am governess to Mr. Lannister’s niece,” she said.

“Governess?” He eyed her trousers. “You’re certain you aren’t teaching her manlier pursuits? Fencing, perhaps?”

“I assure you, sir, I am well trained in all the arts and pretenses required of a proper lady.”

“Yes. I imagine you needed significant training,” he said. “Have you ever met the master -- this Mr. Lannister?”

“No, sir. He is rarely at home.” They had arrived at the horse’s side. Brienne stepped away from the man’s warmth, feeling the cold more acutely in all the places where their bodies had been touching. She took the reins with a practiced hand and stroked the horse’s velvet nose, muttering softly to calm it. She adjusted the saddle, which had slipped loose in the fall.

“Forget teaching needepoint to a green girl,” the man said. “You belong among the grooms in the stables.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” Brienne said, allowing a slight edge to creep into her voice.

He took hold of the saddle and hoisted himself into it. His eyes lingered on her face, his gaze thoughtful, as he gathered the reins. She handed him his whip, which had been thrown loose in the fall. “The hour grows late,” he said. “Post your letter, wench. And hurry home.” He gave the horse a sharp slap with the whip. “Come, Pilot!” he called and disappeared into the shadows. With a final sniff at her boots, the dog raced after him.

Brienne stood in the road for a moment, staring after him. She was surprised to have found in the encounter a taste of that elusive joy she dreamed of -- no giddy delight, no floating iridescent bubble, just the blood-thrill that came from real activity and purpose. And something else: the echo of herself in another being, the thrill of recognition, a call heard and answered. The rush of it buoyed her steps all the way to town.

Even back at Casterly Hall, her clothes restored, her hair combed, and all outward signs of the evening’s adventure smoothed away, the feeling bubbled in her still.

As she made her way from the kitchen to the stairs, the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, stopped her in a frenzy of excitement. “Wait, Miss Brienne!” she said, her weathered face alight. “Have you heard the news? The master has arrived at last! He’s in his study now with Myrcella.” A premonition seized Brienne. She walked away from Mrs. Fairfax and toward the small library off Mr. Lannister’s study. “A shame, though,” Mrs. Fairfax called after her, “he’s injured his leg. None too happy about that, I can assure you.”

As Brienne entered the library, the joy stilled in her blood at the sight of a large golden dog curled on the rug by the fire. He barked in greeting and came to sniff at her, his wet nose warm against her chilled fingers.

“Pilot?” she asked, slumping into a chair. The dog whined in agreement, resting his chin on her knee.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been kicking around this idea since I first fell in love with the character of Brienne of Tarth and the Jaime/Brienne relationship. Brienne's integrity and firm sense of morality, paired with her loneliness, just echoed Jane perfectly for me. And the Jane/Rochester relationship is so much about finding your equal, your partner, in an unexpected place, exactly like Jaime/Brienne. I've had to make some significant changes to the characters to make this work, which I hope doesn't feel like sacrilege to anyone. Jane's shining talent is her painting and sketching, which felt too static for Brienne. I thought she needed a more active talent, a way to meet and best Jaime on his own terms. And so: horses. Other changes will necessarily follow, presuming the story is read and enjoyed and it makes sense to continue. All feedback gratefully welcomed on this, my first fanfic, and please forgive the fandom errors of a non-book-reader.


	2. Chapter 2

In mere hours, Casterly Hall was  transformed. Mrs. Fairfax had summoned two additional serving girls from town; they arrived just after daybreak, all curls and giggles and gossip. Breezes blew through once-shuttered rooms, and darkness was banished from every lonely corner. Upstairs, hallways echoed with the snap of fresh sheets; downstairs, rooms filled with the chatter of women working, a sound brighter than the clink of china and the gleam of silver. It was almost as though the master had brought all this light with him, tucked into the pockets of his greatcoat along with handfuls of boiled sweets for his niece. 

Brienne felt like a stranger in this welcoming house, and she fled to the comfort of her orderly classroom. No peace awaited her there. Myrcella’s delight would not be redirected toward arithmetic or Latin. The girl would always rather talk than study, but today words flowed from her like birdsong. All was praise. All was pleasure. All was Jaime, her beloved Uncle Jaime. 

Jaime. Brienne had not heard his name before. 

Brienne had a genuine affection for the girl. Myrcella was the very picture of girlish sweetness, with her creamy skin and honey hair and sugar smiles. But Brienne sensed something more in her: a spark of real intelligence, half-concealed by laziness and too much indulgence. In the months she had been at Casterly Hall, Brienne had done her best to cultivate that spark, and Myrcella had rewarded her efforts. 

When Mrs. Fairfax appeared, the last pretense of schoolwork was forgotten. “The master wishes to see you, my dear,” she said to Myrcella. The girl shrieked and fled the room, a whirlwind of arms and skirt. 

Brienne allowed herself a smile. It died on her lips at Mrs. Fairfax’s next words. “You as well, Miss.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes. He was very particular in his request.” 

“I... But...” Brienne stammered. A cold dread settled in her stomach. 

“And be sure to change your dress, Miss. The master will expect it.” Mrs. Fairfax left Brienne to her fears. 

She walked to her room, forcing reluctant limbs to move as though through water. She owned but three dresses and a spare bodice for one of them. Her unusual height meant extra fabric, extra cost, extra time went into every garment, and yet she had never been able to afford a seamstress who could adjust a pattern to fit her proportions properly. She selected her best, a pale gray silk. _The master will expect it?_ she thought. _More likely he will expect me in trousers and top hat, and will dismiss me at once as an “unsuitable” companion for his niece._  She snorted. “Unsuitable.” The word applied to her in so many ways. 

Once dressed, she checked her reflection in the glass. She saw hair too brittle for style, lips too broad for beauty. She blinked, and eyelashes pale as paper brushed her cheeks. Her father’s blue eyes stared back at her: her last, best reminder of home. 

Brienne paused at the door of Mr. Lannister’s study. Within, Myrcella sat on the rug by the fire. A box lay open at her side, paper strewn about, a doll as golden-haired as she cradled in her arms. Mrs. Fairfax gestured Brienne inside, and she spotted Mr. Lannister in a high-backed armchair, watching the girl at his feet. 

He shifted slightly in his chair, and she caught her first real glimpse of him. The afternoon sun angled through the study window, defining the planes and hollows of his face. She recognized at once the traveler from the road, but now she saw that he was older than she had realized, perhaps five-and-thirty. His was an unforgiving face, and somewhat worn around the eyes, but still beautiful, a face blessed by nature and loved by sunlight. She possessed no real skill as an artist, but the line of his profile made her itch to pick up a pen and copy it. How could she have imagined any likeness between herself and this stranger of gilt and glow? 

He glanced up and met her eyes. “Miss Tarth, is it?” he said. “You’re much uglier by daylight.” 

Brienne set her jaw and held his stare: unwilling to look away, unwilling to reply. His words were deliberately cruel. She searched his eyes for that same cruelty, puzzled when she could not find it. 

Mrs. Fairfax, good woman that she was, grew flustered at his comment. “Oh, but, Mr. Lannister,” she cried. “Miss Tarth has been such a blessing to me, and to Myrcella. She’s such good company, and so kind to the girl.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character, Mrs. Fairfax. I shall make her out for myself. She began by felling my horse.“ 

“She did?” Mrs. Fairfax asked. 

“She did. I thought perhaps a golem stood in my path, a creature of mud, ill-formed and not quite finished. No wonder poor Mesrour was spooked.” 

“You were sitting too high in the saddle,” Brienne said. “And you pulled both reins instead of stopping him with one. Sir.” 

He paused, considering her. She shifted her weight to stand with her legs a little farther apart, farther than was strictly acceptable for a lady. She knew that distance intimately, having measured it in the eyes of a hundred other women, and she knew when she crossed the line, but she drew strength from the stance. 

“Is that so?" Mr. Lannister asked. "And where did you learn so much of horses, Miss Tarth? In the stables of Diomedes, where you used your great bulk to assist Heracles in the theft of the giant’s mares?" 

"The Mares of Thrace were said to be flesh-eaters, sir," Brienne replied. "I should hope I have sense enough to keep my distance. Besides, the Romans are long gone from these shores, and they have taken the Greek myths with them, I think." 

"Pity," Mr. Lannister said. "You might have captured the heart of Xanthos, the blonde mare, and merrily plundered a dozen villages together." He looked her over. "Or rescued a dozen maidens." 

Mrs. Fairfax seemed both confused and troubled by the turn of their conversation. "Surely she learned her love of horses from her father, sir," she said. 

"Your father?" he asked. Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Do you mean Major Selwyn Tarth? He was quite the decorated soldier. Are you as good with a weapon as you are with a horse?" 

Brienne made no reply. 

“He’s been dead these ten years, has he not?" he asked. 

“Nine years. Seven months.” 

“You were just a girl then,” he said. “No older than my niece.” 

“I have been without my father for as long as I had him, sir.” 

"And where have you lived since then?" he asked. 

"At Lowood School." 

"A charitable institution," he said. "Well, that explains the dress. And where are your brothers and sisters, Miss Tarth?” 

"I was my father’s only s--” she stopped herself. “His only child,” she finished. 

"His only son, you nearly said, and rightly so." He shifted in his chair. "I was prepared to dismiss you, Miss Tarth, " he said, "until I spoke with Myrcella.” His eyes drifted to the girl. “A lucky child,” he said. “All of her mother’s beauty, and none of her nature. And yet she has suffered a string of governesses too timid even to tell her that her stitches are crooked.” He looked back at Brienne. “That does not describe you, I think,” he said. 

Again, Brienne made no reply. 

Mr. Lannister sighed. “You have improved her, Miss Tarth. It’s most noticeable. And I believe she enjoys it.” He looked at Myrcella again, a shadow passing across his features. “And yet, what does she have to look forward to?” His eyes met Brienne’s.  “Do you believe happiness is possible for a woman? A _normal_ woman, I mean?” 

“Happiness is fleeting,” Brienne said. “And good fortune may never arrive. Duty is a ship that sails in all weathers.” 

“Perhaps,” he said. “But this ship, Duty -- where is she bound?” 

Brienne thought for a moment. “I know not,” she said. “But I know the way.” 

Mr. Lannister sat back in his chair and stared at her. “A striking thought from one so young. Where did it come from?” 

“From my own head.” 

“The one I now see on your shoulders?” 

“The very same.” 

“Has it got other, similar furniture within?” 

“Better, I hope.” 

He held her eyes for a moment, and Brienne felt that same tug toward him, that call of like to like, that she had experienced on the road. _Jaime_ , she thought. 

Then Mr. Lannister looked at his watch and said abruptly, “Nearly four o’clock? What are you about, Miss Tarth, to keep my niece so long from her tea? Off, all of you.” He waved a dismissive hand.  Myrcella ran to him and kissed him on the cheek. He bore it, but Brienne saw true pain cross his features before both girl and doll quitted the room. He caught Brienne looking at him. “You as well, Miss Tarth. Don’t be boring, if you please.” 

She gave a brief nod and followed Mrs. Fairfax out. When the older woman had closed the door behind them, Brienne turned to her. “Do you know aught of Myrcella’s mother, ma’am?” she asked. 

“Mr. Lannister’s sister? No, not much, Miss.” Mrs. Fairfax shook her head, but Brienne noticed her wringing her hands nervously. “A lovely woman, though,” she said. “Truly lovely. She’s been gone these four years, I believe. There’s a portrait of her in the Blue Room.” 

When Mrs. Fairfax returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea, Brienne made her way to the Blue Room, which was upstairs in a wing she had never before entered. Brienne found the painting at once -- there was no mistaking the resemblance between this woman and her daughter. Both painting and woman were extraordinary. She wore a dress of deep red and gold, and hair the same shade as Myrcella’s tumbled loose over one shoulder, decadent and soft, even on canvas. _If Mr. Lannister were a woman,_ Brienne thought, _this is what he would look like._ Bright green eyes looked back at her from the canvas, and Brienne fancied she saw ambition and energy burning in their depths. A small smile hovered on the woman’s glossy lips: half humor, half malice. _Not so much like her brother, then,_ Brienne thought.

She stood staring at the painting until dusk softened the lines of the woman’s face and filled the corners of the room with shadow. In the last breath of sunlight, while she could still see, Brienne ran a finger across the brass plate at the bottom of the frame. “Cersei,” she whispered. “Cersei Lannister.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole chunks of dialogue from both GoT and Bronte, here -- even dipped into the books for the first time. (Woo!) I'm still playing fast and loose with all my sources, bending characters and plots to serve my purposes. I hope that's more enjoyable than irritating. All feedback will be consumed greedily with both hands.


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